Every Day Quotes January
by MissJayne
Summary: A series of oneshots and drabbles about our favourite characters.  One quote per day.
1. Intro

Greetings all! And welcome to another year of drabbles and oneshots posted daily. This collection is not based solely on friendship like the last one was, and I feel this has given me a greater opportunity to delve into the minds of the characters.

I told myself at the end of Every Day Thoughts that I would never do this again. While I enjoyed the actual writing and the challenge, the stress and deadlines got to me (the whole thing literally took over my life), and I struggled to finish. So why have I decided to do this for another year? I must be insane. If I even dream of attempting a third year, I have asked my beta to kill me.

The entire collection is dedicated to Megan, the most amazing friend and beta (I did tell you how hard it was to write these, my lovely), and also partly to Aunt Kitty, who encouraged me so much last time around and has been partly instrumental in persuading me to try this challenge again (if you want a third year, write them yourself!).

Disclaimer: I don't own the show, the characters or the quotes.


	2. Jan 1

Every Day Quotes: January

_**Jan 1**_

Comedy is simply a funny way of being serious.

**Peter Ustinov**

Anthony DiNozzo stumbled into the squad room and collapsed in his chair, glancing up to confirm only two things. One: a certain Leroy Jethro Gibbs was nowhere to be seen. And two: his teammates looked as bad as he felt.

New Year's Day was quite possibly the worst day in the world as far as he was concerned. Partly because New Year's Eve was so amazing. Gibbs would always make sure they weren't on duty, the annual NCIS party to bring in the New Year was much better than anything the FBI could organize (the same agency Tony swore could not organize a piss-up in a brewery), and there was always a free bar.

Which the agents took full advantage of.

And somehow, every year, every member of Team Gibbs managed to forget that their boss always made sure that they had the New Year's Day shift.

Therefore, tired and hungover (and possibly still slightly drunk in Tony's case), they had to handle all the Navy and Marine personnel who committed copious crimes while in a similar condition.

"Why has Gibbs made us come in?" Tony groaned aloud.

"Because he hates us." Upon finishing her proclamation, Ziva put her forehead back on her desk and continued to appear dead.

"He was definitely drinking," McGee somehow recalled. "And making out with a redhead in a corner…"

Ziva's head shot up, wincing as she stared at him in shock.

"Nope, that was Fornell," Tony corrected. Ziva instantly settled down again. "Although they are easy to get confused – both horrible people who would make their teams work today. Who invited Fornell anyway?"

"Gatecrashed," Gibbs announced, appearing out of nowhere. "Gear up. Some idiot left an anonymous tip that he abandoned his pet skunk on an aircraft carrier."


	3. Jan 2

_**Jan 2  
><strong>_There are 10^11 stars in the galaxy. That used to be a huge number. But it's only a hundred billion. It's less than the national deficit! We used to call them astronomical numbers. Now we should call them economical numbers.  
><strong>Richard Feynman<strong>

Jennifer Shepard was not entirely sure why she had decided to accept the job as Director of NCIS. Most of the time, she was able to recall clearly – she firmly believed she could make a difference. But at certain times, she wished she had chosen a different path.

Why did she have to be so involved in the budget? She wasn't an accountant. Why couldn't the accountants do their job and she schmooze the politicians into giving her agency more money?

Options, options. Perhaps a few early morning talk shows would raise the profile of her agency, making it fashionable to throw money her way. Maybe bribing Gibbs into playing nice with the media for a few weeks would help; there was no way she could blackmail him and he had a nasty habit of raising the profile of her agency in the worst possible ways. She was sure he was lying about tripping and therefore spilling his disturbingly warm coffee over the blonde reporter who had asked who his Director was dating…

Blackmail. Threatening to report Senator Thornton for sexual harassment might get him on her side. Sometimes it was helpful to have Officer David around.

She sighed in frustration, opening her desk and rooting around for an Advil. A visit to the firing range later would calm her down.


	4. Jan 3

_**Jan 3  
><strong>_A waist is a terrible thing to mind.  
><strong>Jane Caminos<strong>

Anthony DiNozzo stared into the restroom mirror. His shirt and undershirt lay to one side, discarded as he sucked his stomach in and glared at his reflection.

As always, it was all Ziva's fault. His aggravating Mossad assassin had agreed with a suspect's wisecrack a week ago that he was a little large around the middle. His partner had gone one step further and noted with a wicked grin that he was putting on weight.

But he couldn't gain weight. He took good care of himself, was God's gift to women. Who would fall in love with his smile if he had a spare tire around his waist like the Probie?

He wondered if the mirror was perhaps broken. Maybe his sneaky ninja had replaced it with one of those fairground ones that added weight. Though, when he thought about it, she could have a point. Ducky pointed out time and time again that his diet was appalling and he had always been told his metabolism would slow as he aged.

The restroom door opened and he whirled around in shock. He wasn't sure whether to be worried or relieved as Ziva slipped in and locked the door behind her. She looked him up and down, her expression unreadable.

"Is a woman hiding in here?" she asked him bluntly, leaving her spot by the door to start kicking in the cubicle doors.

"What?" He stared at her. "No. Why would you think that?" As he spoke, he reached for his clothes and began to pull them back on.

"You have been in here for half an hour," she pointed out, apparently satisfied that they were alone as she settled back into her usual slouch against the door, blocking his escape route. "And I have not put laxatives in your coffee today."

He glared at her, making a mental note to search her desk at the earliest opportunity to find those laxatives. "It doesn't matter." He did the last button and moved towards her. "Let's not keep Gibbs waiting any longer."

She didn't move. "Is this about what I said a week ago?" she queried. "Because you have the wrong end of the wood."

"Stick," he corrected automatically, hoping she would never use that particular phrase again.

It was her turn to glare at him. "My point was that you have not been exercising enough recently," she continued. "A few sessions in the gym with me and I am sure your muscles will be back in no time."

He grinned widely as she unlocked the door and held it open for him to leave. She was right; he didn't need to worry. Only that her gym sessions might kill him.


	5. Jan 4

_**Jan 4  
><strong>_Why isn't there a special name for the tops of your feet?  
><strong>Lily Tomlin (1939 - )<strong>

Abby Scuito was concerned. Very concerned.

This was not an unusual occurrence. After all, she was good friends with Agent Gibbs and his team, who had a nasty habit of getting caught up in all sorts of danger. Only the previous day they had successfully located a stolen batch of sarin. Abby had given them strict instructions to hold their breath and run as fast as possible in the other direction if they even thought the gas had been released.

Though it would have been kind of pointless, but if there had been even a chance…

Her problem today, though, did not involve her silver-haired fox or his team. It was because of another team's case and her lack of vocabulary, coupled with both Ducky and Palmer being away at a medical examiner's conference and a snooty FBI person covering for them whom she would not approach.

Unless the building was on fire, but that was another matter entirely.

Her favorite music had been turned off in a bid to help her. Her babies had been left to their own devices; Major Mass Spec had taken exception to this and was busy throwing a smoking fit. The Goth planned to ignore it until he set off the smoke alarm and brought about the evacuation of the building; he wasn't being serious.

The elevator made its familiar sound and she perked up. Help was coming! Ziva appeared, carrying a plastic container with a bloody knife.

"We need a rush on this please," the Israeli greeted her. "Gibbs thinks there may be fingerprints –"

"Why isn't there a special name for the tops of your feet?" Abby whined. "I found a sticky substance on the top of the late Petty Officer Thomas' foot and I want to use the proper name for it. I can't exactly call them 'the opposite of soles' in my report."

"Soles?" Ziva repeated, confused. "What do fish have to do with anything?"

Abby paused for long enough to figure out what had happened. "Soles as in the bottom of your feet," she explained. "Not the fish."

Ziva shrugged her shoulders. "I am sure Ducky would be able to give you a better word," she concluded. "About the knife… Are you aware your mass spec is on fire?"

The Goth glared at it. "This is not going to end well," she announced. "I may have used the carbon dioxide fire extinguisher in a recreation of a murder last week and haven't had a replacement yet."


	6. Jan 5

_**Jan 5  
><strong>_If you put tomfoolery into a computer, nothing comes out of it but tomfoolery. But this tomfoolery, having passed through a very expensive machine, is somehow ennobled and no-one dares criticize it.  
><strong>Pierre Gallois<strong>

Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs had a problem. A very serious problem. One which could only be solved by his very junior agent Timothy McGee.

Which would just not do.

His computer, the one he could not for the life of him figure out how to use or glare into submission, had got a bacteria or a virus, one of the two. His agents would happily use the correct words and know exactly what to do, but he did not.

And it frustrated him. He was supposed to be the one in charge, the one to guide and teach them. The one who had the most time in service, the one who had seen everything at least once and knew exactly how to handle each and every scenario out in the field. But when it came to a _poxy_ computer, he had to resist the urge to shoot it.

He really did not understand why he had to use the technology. Admittedly it made his agents hand in their reports sooner, which was a bonus. Yet he couldn't see why he was not allowed to handwrite his own. His handwriting was legible enough when he wanted it to be.

Resisting the urge to sigh and thereby let his team see his weakness, he rose from his chair and headed out for more coffee. "Fix it, McGee," he ordered, pointing at the infernal machine as he passed. Caffeine would calm him down.


	7. Jan 6

_**Jan 6  
><strong>_The future is here. It's just not widely distributed yet.  
><strong>William Gibson<strong>** (1948 - )**

Timothy McGee smiled widely as he leaned back in his chair. His report was complete, Gibbs was nowhere to be seen, and he had treated himself to a new toy at lunchtime that he was very anxious to play with.

His brand new, state of the art cell phone had been charging slowly as he had worked out the best way to phrase his report. It had taken longer than expected to explain their latest case, in part due to Tony's chair mysteriously collapsing halfway through the afternoon after he had spent the morning flicking pieces of paper at Ziva. The man would never learn.

With no one to disturb him, he picked up his new phone and began to deduce exactly how it functioned. It did not take him long; he was intimately acquainted with technology. He began to smile again as the device followed his instructions flawlessly.

"What do you have there, McGeek?" Tony queried aloud.

Tim wasn't sure whether to reply or not. On one hand, Tony was always last to finish his paperwork and needed as few distractions as possible. On the other, if he received no reply, he would resort to more drastic measures.

"New phone." An answer, but hopefully not enough of an answer to divert Tony's attention.

"I want that phone."

Perhaps not.

"It's supposed to be really good," Tony continued. "Can I borrow it?"

"No," Tim answered, privately horrified at the thought and aware he would never get it back in one piece if he was idiotic enough to hand it over. "Get your own."

"But I like it," Tony whined.

"Four hundred bucks and you can have your own," Tim pointed out, smiling to himself. Money well spent.

"I'm a government employee. How am I supposed to find that kind of money?" Tony pouted, looking across at Ziva who was studiously ignoring the whole conversation and focusing on her own report.

"Write a few novels," Tim suggested.

Tony pulled a face but Tim continued to smile. It had all been worth it.


	8. Jan 7

_**Jan 7  
><strong>_Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love.  
><strong>Charles M. Schulz<strong>** (1922 - 2000)**, _Charlie Brown in "Peanuts"_

Jennifer Shepard was in love. Had been for a long time. Doubted she would ever really stop loving him.

While love was not all rainbows and butterflies, it was still amazing. Waking up thinking of him, going to sleep with him on her mind – she could never quite get him out of her head and she wasn't sure she wanted to. A brush of his hand against hers made her shiver and tingle, and it was hard to resist his pout when he wanted something.

And he knew she was powerless against his puppy dog eyes.

His smile was so beautiful; all his worries seemed to fade away and her stomach filled with butterflies. He was kind, caring, _chivalrous _– few men were nowadays and most were simply afraid of her position and her determination. Not him.

But she knew he did not love her back, not after she had broken his heart. A city of romance the other side of the world had simultaneously bound them together inseparably and torn them asunder. Out of the ashes of their love had grown a tentative friendship and permanent heartache.

He would never trust her again, not fully. She had to live with that knowledge, with his loss of trust, every day for the rest of her life. She loved him from the bottom of her heart and always would, but he would never take her back. Instead he punished her by parading his latest redheaded bimbo in front of her.

She was irreparably damaged, unable to move on. Every new man in his life was compared against an ideal in her head that was impossible for them to live up to. Perhaps if they separated for good, she would stand a chance of finding someone. But she settled for seeing him every day, stuck in limbo, unable to stop loving him.


	9. Jan 8

_**Jan 8  
><strong>_Guard well within yourself that treasure, kindness. Know how to give without hesitation, how to lose without regret, how to acquire without meanness.  
><strong>George Sand<strong>** (1804 - 1876)**

Ziva David paused as the full ramifications of what she was about to do suddenly entered her head. Had she lost her mind?

McGee had not been well the last couple of days. While Gibbs usually sent his sick agents home, whether because he was actually concerned for them or because he feared them passing the germs to the rest of his team was a topic of fierce debate, the disappearance of a young girl from her bedroom at night had destroyed that plan. And then when they had located her deceased tiny body, it had been all hands on the floor and top speed ahead.

Although she was fairly sure her English was a casualty of this case.

With so many leads to follow, McGee had not even muttered a complaint but settled down to make phone calls and track various individuals. He had been the one to crack the case and locate the killer. Now she wanted to reward him for his efforts with a bag of donuts.

Yet this was not like her. Not the Ziva David who had first come to America, determined to follow orders and nothing else. She had made friends, discovered a kind heart underneath her tough exterior and learned how to love. She had found that not everything needed to be about her or Mossad, that she could let her head down and relax every now and then.

She smiled to herself as she reached for the donuts. They would be perfect for McGee.


	10. Jan 9

_**Jan 9  
><strong>_Do not pursue what is illusory - property and position: all that is gained at the expense of your nerves decade after decade and can be confiscated in one fell night. Live with a steady superiority over life - don't be afraid of misfortune, and do not yearn after happiness; it is after all, all the same: the bitter doesn't last forever, and the sweet never fills the cup to overflowing.  
><strong>Alexander Solzhenitsyn<strong>** (1918 - )**

Life, Ducky mused, was a tricky beast.

Autopsy was semi-quiet at this time of the morning. The perpetual hum of the freezers and the buzzing of the lights had long ceased to distract him. The cold in the air soothed rather than hardened him after so many years. He was alone apart from his guests, something comforting. No one to worry about pleasing with mundane matters, only a desire to find the truth in order to achieve justice for the poor souls who graced his tables and had to put up with him learning their most intimate secrets.

He gave General Anderson a gentle smile as he reached for his scalpel. Such a sorry story. The man had longed for money and a position, apparently railroaded as many people as possible in the pursuit of his dreams, only to drop dead of a massive coronary after the IRS has conducted an audit and found a few irregularities.

Ducky was content with his lot. He did not have to work – he could have drawn a pension long ago and settled down somewhere to live out the rest of his days in peace – but he chose to fight for justice for the deceased individuals he met and to teach the next generation. He had loved and lost many times, and had few regrets, choosing to triumph over life than let it get the better of him. He chose to stay with his friends and support them however he could.

As he began to poke inside the General, he wondered which story to regale him with. The one involving the Egyptian prince seemed most apt.


	11. Jan 10

_**Jan 10  
><strong>_Work and struggle and never accept an evil that you can change.  
><strong>Andre Gide<strong>** (1869 - 1951)**

Leroy Jethro Gibbs stared at the husk of his new boat. There was something very wrong about this.

He had been building boats for a long time; Shannon had recognized how good he was with his hands and she had encouraged him. Since then, he had used the time in his basement to relax and calm him. While his later marriages fell apart and his work swallowed him whole, the basement became a safe haven.

He didn't always build boats, unbeknownst to his team. He created little wooden toys at Christmas for sick children in the hospital. He fashioned cradles and armchairs for expectant mothers and women's shelters. They kept his hands busy, expanded his knowledge and expertise with wood, and made him feel useful. Sometimes his cases at work ended badly for everyone involved and this gave him more control over the outcome.

His new boat. There was definitely something wrong with it. By boat number five, he should have got the hang of what he was doing, knew to trust his instincts and go with the flow. But something was off, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

There! A slight dent.

His best guess involved Ziva throwing her cell phone at the rib in frustration, and he made a mental note to find out exactly what had happened and fix a lock to his basement door before he found Tony's lifeless carcass pinned to a rib.

He sighed as he surveyed the damage. There was nothing for it; he was going to have to make another rib.


	12. Jan 11

_**Jan 11  
><strong>_Facts are stubborn things; and whatever may be our wishes, our inclinations, or the dictates of our passion, they cannot alter the state of facts and evidence.  
><strong>John Adams<strong>** (1735 - 1826)**, _'Argument in Defense of the Soldiers in the Boston Massacre Trials,' December 1770_

While Abigail Scuito adored facts, sometimes they bothered her a little bit more than a lot. Especially when the facts did not match a theory.

As a scientist, she enjoyed walking down unfamiliar paths of thought, learning new and interesting methods and testing her theories. She enjoyed the puzzles that evidence could give her – the optimum way to attain the answers she was looking for, how to analyze her evidence without destroying it, figuring out a way to confirm an idea, and just the sheer variety of the items she could deal with.

In a typical week, she usually dealt with a large amount of suspicious white powders (which nine times out of ten turned out to be something completely innocuous), fingerprints and various bodily fluids, and the simply weird – analyzing DNA on the outside of rubbers, running catkin DNA, determining the geographical profile of illegal drugs, recreating the odd spontaneous human combustion scenario and finding a _lot_ of porn on a _lot_ of computers.

All in all, she was good at her job.

But to have a theory utterly destroyed by her facts?

She paced, full of frustration. Her eyes noticed Bert sitting patiently on her desk and she began to rant.

"This is not fair! Totally not fair!"

She checked he looked sympathetic before continuing.

"I had a theory, which Gibbs also shares by the way, but the evidence doesn't fit so it's completely wrong, and I'm not some kind of idiot who bends the facts to suit her and neither is Gibbs so clearly we need a new theory and obviously I'm the one to come up with it while _el jefe _is out in the field… Maybe I should call and update him?"

Bert seemed to approve so she reached for her phone. Gibbs would understand.


	13. Jan 12

_**Jan 12  
><strong>_There is always so much talk about the sins of the fathers, but it is the sins of the mothers that are the most difficult to avoid repeating.  
><strong>Melanie Benjamin<strong>, _Alice I Have Been, 2010_

As she gently fingered the frame on her desk, Jennifer Shepard pondered why everyone spoke of the sins of the fathers.

She had loved her father – still did – and had enjoyed growing up as an Army brat. The moving house constantly, changing schools and having to make new friends had never bothered her; her father had been calling her a social butterfly long before she had understood the phrase. Her father had loved his job and she had loved him and so she had not minded the constant upheaval.

He had installed a sense of duty in her, as well as the belief that hard work would get her wherever she wanted to go. He had taught her how to survive in a man's world and that she was just as good, if not better, than them.

The sins of her mother were the ones she was most anxious to avoid. Despite growing up in a loving household until her mother's untimely demise, Jenny had still felt the tension between her parents. Her mother had been full of ambition, a trait she had passed to her daughter, but felt unfulfilled. She had given everything up to be with the man she loved, followed him all over the country and supported him completely. Yet sometimes Jenny could sense her bitterness and resentment at giving up so much to preserve her family.

Her own abandoning the love of her life was fueled by a desire not to turn into her mother. He was the senior agent, and despite her then willingness to give everything up and follow him to the ends of the world if need be, she had known that eventually she would have begun to resent him. She could not do that; she loved him too much. And so she had chosen another path, perhaps not the best one but certainly one away from the particular form of heartache she feared.

After all, heartache was only supposed to be temporary if they were apart…


	14. Jan 13

_**Jan 13  
><strong>_Do something. If it doesn't work, do something else. No idea is too crazy.  
><strong>Jim Hightower<strong>, _The New York Times, March 9, 1986_

Anthony DiNozzo had a horrible feeling that he was trapped in a nightmare. He pinched himself surreptitiously. _Ouch_. Perhaps not.

The evidence garage was supposed to be deserted at this time of night. With his luck, naturally it was the boss who had found him in his rather unfortunate attire.

Gibbs had a way of making everyone want to spill their deepest and darkest secrets to him within seconds. It could have been his nature, they way he held himself, a look in his eyes or a combination of all three, but it worked like a charm. Suspects fell over themselves to tell the truth, no matter how much they would clam up around anyone else.

The great man had also trained his team to understand his instructions before he even had to open his mouth. Despite the man being full of secrets, his team could predict what he wanted in a heartbeat. And right now, Leroy Jethro Gibbs wanted an explanation.

Tony's initial thought was to blame the entire thing on the Probie. Unfortunately, Gibbs knew when he lied and would double-check with McGee no matter what. In reality, he was assisting Abby but he wasn't sure how much the mistress of the night had told her silver-haired fox. Silence might be favorable to dropping the favorite in it.

"DiNozzo! Why on earth are you wearing a wedding dress?"


	15. Jan 14

_**Jan 14  
><strong>_Storms make oaks take deeper root.  
><strong>George Herbert<strong>** (1593 - 1633)**

Lightning lit the sky and illuminated the car and its passengers for a brief moment in time, before darkness swallowed everything whole again. The air was steeped in ozone which poured into every crevice and seemed to heighten the humidity. Only the thunder and the dull smack of heavy raindrops as they hit every available surface broke the silent night.

Timothy McGee was not afraid of storms. On the contrary, he found them soothing. There was something about the way they cleared the air after a few days of unbearable tension, like a fresh start or the beginning of a hot summer's day. The forks of electricity cutting through the night sky were works of art to be admired, while the rumble of drums was somehow incredibly pure and earthy.

"Does Gibbs really think our suspect is going to wander outside in this weather?" his co-worker, partner in observing the beautiful storm in all its destructive glory, whispered as though attempting to prevent nature's power from recognizing them.

"Not unless he wants to drown," Tim replied, his tone as hushed as hers to maintain the spell cast over the night. "At least we have a show to watch."

The wind howled around the car, shaking it as an infant would a toy, and the occupants huddled deeper into their warm jackets, each simultaneously dreaming that they could turn the heating on and yet neither willing to break the atmosphere. They relaxed in their seats instead, gazing up at the heavens and wishing the storm would never end.


	16. Jan 15

_**Jan 15  
><strong>_How helpless we are, like netted birds, when we are caught by desire!  
><strong>Belva Plain<strong>

The catwalk outside MTAC was an intriguing spot. On the one hand, it was good to stand up there and spy on the squad room. On the other, most people forgot they could be seen as they stood up there spying on everyone else.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs knew it came down to an odd human trait; the inability to look upwards. Most of the time, the vast majority of people focused on the floor or whatever was right in front of them. But they missed out.

He was busy people-watching from his desk; he would never admit to himself that he focused on her on purpose. His team were nose-deep in paperwork and silent only because they realized how far behind they were, knowing from experience that he would not let them leave until they finished, which could well be all night if they did not get a move on. So they scurried about their work while he spied upon such a beautiful creature.

The redhead was absorbed in the files she rested against the railing, her reading glasses perched primly on the end of her nose. The conservative sharp black skirt only served to accentuate her calves, the crisp oxford shirt hinted at what was hidden beneath and her impossibly high heels could kill a man in more than one way. The soft curls in her shoulder-length crimson tresses cast an air of vulnerability around her. Her lips were coated in a shade of red that ought to have been indecent. Her emerald eyes glimmered from a distance. It was all he could do to stop himself from stalking up there, grabbing her and –

"Boss?"

Gibbs forced himself to focus on McGee, who stood in front of him wearing a nervous expression. "I'm just off to get coffee. Would you like me to bring you one?"


	17. Jan 16

_**Jan 16  
><strong>_The summer night is like a perfection of thought.  
><strong>Wallace Stevens<strong>** (1879 - 1955)**

Soft, white powder fell gently from the sky as Ziva David stood by her window. Outside, the cool, crisp air bothered her, turning her nose red, but from the safety of her apartment, she enjoyed this weather.

Although Israel experienced snow in winter, she much preferred summer. Not the heatwaves where it was so hot she felt as though she would melt into a puddle, the days where any form of exercise felt unnatural or the thick humidity made it hard to breathe. It was the warm nights, the cool evenings, the beauty of the sun as it rose in the morning to light the world and the stunning colors cast as it set.

There was something about a gentle breeze in summer that made her smile. A contrast to the warm, still air that made the moment perfect. And rain. Normally, rain was either a nuisance or to be used as cover during a mission. But hot, fat raindrops pouring from the heavens after a few days of unbearable heat made her want to dance in the water, to celebrate.

The snow continued to fall outside and she wondered whether she would be snowed in overnight. Perhaps she would allow Tony to instruct her in the correct method to make a snowman. She could always hit him with a snowball if he mentioned her red nose.


	18. Jan 17

_**Jan 17  
><strong>_There is nothing so absurd but some philosopher has said it.  
><strong>Cicero<strong>** (106 BC - 43 BC)**, _De Divinatione_

"A database containing DNA is full of very complex ethical issues."

Jimmy Palmer glanced up from this work, a row of neat, precise stitches in Corporal Jansen, curious as to the sudden change in topic by his loquacious mentor. Changes in topic were not new, but this sounded as though it was about to become a debate and he preferred his wits about him.

He knew why this subject was in the air. Agent Gibbs had graced Autopsy earlier, wanting to know if Ducky could pull a few strings and persuade the British authorities to hand over their suspect's DNA profile so they could compare it to one found at a crime scene. Palmer had wondered aloud why they couldn't just arrest the guy and take a sample, but Agent Gibbs had glared at him and that was that.

"The British have different rules governing their database," Ducky continued. "Simply being arrested, which happens the moment a police officer claps a hand on your shoulder, means a sample is taken. No charges are necessary, just being stopped."

Palmer might have worked in law enforcement, but he felt this was a little excessive. "So what do they do with children?" he wondered aloud.

Ducky sighed. "Exactly the same. No sample is ever removed. The argument is that the innocent have nothing to fear."

"But Agent Gibbs' suspect was never charged or convicted. Will he be able to see the profile?" Palmer asked.

"The lawyers will battle it out," Ducky noted. "This reminds me of John Rawls. He stated that individuals have to give up some of their freedoms in return for the state providing security. Of course, he meant taxes and laws, not the indefinite retention of a DNA profile."

The doors swished open and Agent Gibbs stormed in. "Ducky," he growled.

The doctor smiled and followed his friend to the elevator.

"Dropped a stitch," Gibbs called over his shoulder as the doors closed.


	19. Jan 18

_A/N: Very quick note to anyone who wants to take part in Jibbsfest - something's hinky with the forum so I've posted the prompts on my LJ (link on my Author's page) and I'll post on the forum when I can._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Jan 18<br>**_I do not want to die... until I have faithfully made the most of my talent and cultivated the seed that was placed in me until the last small twig has grown.  
><strong>Kathe Kollwitz<strong>, _O Magazine, September 2002_

Leroy Jethro Gibbs stared into the face of danger far more than the average person. Some might say he was used to it. But none knew the thoughts running through his head as the barrel of a gun pressed into his temple.

He knew the drug dealer was utterly capable of pulling the trigger; he had already murdered his business rival and then had shot his own brother, his partner in crime, in front of Gibbs less than five minutes ago. The brother's brains were splattered all over the wall, the floor and a few splodges on Gibbs' jacket. The agent was patiently waiting for his team to realize where he was and come to his rescue. All he had to do was stall for time.

Except he wasn't sure if he wanted to.

To die would mean seeing Shannon and Kelly again. Every day without them broke his heart and some days their absence, the ache in his heart, was unbearable. To leave this world behind, with all its pain and darkness, would not take much. The twitch of a finger on a trigger. Mis-timing when to step out of the path of a speeding car. Taking a bullet meant for someone else.

But he could not die yet, not when his team still had things to learn. Leaving DiNozzo in charge during his 'retirement' had been a mistake; his team had struggled and he himself had not been able to settle his mind. Every day he judged whether they were ready or not.

Perhaps it was more than that. Perhaps he did not think his team were prepared because he lived for them, knowing it was only temporary when he would be reunited with his family forever.

He stared the drug dealer in the eye, unafraid. Whatever happened now was out of his control.


	20. Jan 19

_**Jan 19  
><strong>_The sad truth is that excellence makes people nervous.  
><strong>Shana Alexander<strong>

Tobias Fornell did not mind waiting around in the Navy Yard, despite his usual mocking, growls and complaints. It gave him the opportunity to watch people, people he knew performed incredible jobs under so much pressure.

He especially enjoyed watching Gibbs' team. The man somehow made them work like clockwork, with little input needed to attain the necessary results. They were all good in their own ways and worked flawlessly together.

He was trapped in the building until his Director finished his pissing match with Jenny and jurisdiction was decided. Until then, the agent was gathering tidbits of information, aware if he ended up with the case that NCIS would mysteriously fail to co-operate, although Jethro could be bribed with coffee.

For now, he settled for watching Agent McGee work his magic with computers. He wasn't exactly sure what the younger agent was doing and didn't want to know; deniability would be good in a courtroom. Tony and Ziva had disappeared to interview a witness, while Jethro was meeting his caffeine supplier.

McGee was a master at his job. His finger flew over his keyboard, his attention never wavered and he gave his task every ounce of concentration. Such focus, such excellence scared a lot of people. That reaction was unnecessary in Fornell's mind; everyone had strengths and weaknesses.

He rubbed his hand across his chin, feeling the three-day-old stubble that covered it. God, he was getting too old for this. Jethro had better remember to bring him back a coffee or blood would be split.


	21. Jan 20

_**Jan 20  
><strong>_When buying and selling are controlled by legislation, the first things to be bought and sold are legislators.  
><strong>P. J. O'Rourke<strong>** (1947 - )**

Jennifer Shepard was not in a good mood. The idiot at the coffee shop had screwed up her order, giving her a drink with not enough caffeine and half a ton of sugar. Cynthia had come down with the flu and her temporary replacement had yet to locate her office; when he eventually turned up, she planned to fire the temp. MTAC was not functioning after a certain Agent DiNozzo had made Agent McGee jump and spill his coffee over one of the vital consoles.

And to top it all off, Senator Fahy hated her guts and was busy blocking the budget for NCIS in a committee. If she couldn't get it sorted soon, her agency would be out of funds and she would have to come up with emergency measures; otherwise the Navy and Marines could implode and there would not be a damn thing they could do about it.

Technically, Senator Fahy did not hate her guts. He was just joined at the hip with private intelligence companies who wanted to undercut her agency. The companies were paying him a lot of money to cause her a lot of problems.

She sighed, opening her eyes and fighting the urge to reach for her gun when she spotted Ziva sitting silently in front of her desk. She hadn't heard anything, but the Israeli could be incredibly sneaky at times. It was a good thing she had had a lot of practice with a sneaky ex-marine.

"Better start hoarding the ammo," Jenny quipped.

"Why?" Ziva looked baffled. "I already have quite a store –"

Jenny shook her head. "It was a note, not an observation," she pointed out. "Senator Fahy needs to have a heart attack soon or we won't have any money. Lucky for you, Mossad pays your wages. The rest of NCIS is going to starve."

Ziva smirked. "Do you want him dead or merely more amenable…"


	22. Jan 21

_**Jan 21 – continuation of Jan 20  
><strong>_Our main business is not to see what lies dimly at a distance but to do what lies clearly at hand.  
><strong>Thomas Carlyle<strong>** (1795 - 1881)**

Ziva David had never worried about long term consequences. Her job was to do whatever was necessary and whatever she was ordered. Consequences were for other people to worry about.

Although Director Shepard did not have to say anything aloud, Ziva knew Senator Fahy was a serious threat to NCIS. Corruption could not be proven, not in the timeframe available to them. Instead, she planned to make the man see the error of his ways and to stop causing problems for Jenny, her agency and eventually the team Ziva worked with.

Tracking the Senator had not been difficult. The man shunned a security detail, believing arrogantly that he was invincible, that no one would dare harm him. And he was utterly predictable, always arriving home at the same time every night. Ziva planned to take full advantage of that fact.

She watched from the shadows as he stepped out of his car, glanced around to check for reporters and headed to his front door. Moving swiftly and silently, she came up behind him and pressed a blade to his throat.

"You are in the pay of various private intelligence companies," she whispered in his ear, careful to disguise her accent as much as possible and to prevent him from seeing her face. "Find a way out. Or I will give the press photos of you meeting a male escort."

She melted into the shadows as rapidly as she had appeared, observing his reactions. The slow realization that she had left. The relief. The fear that she could return.

As she sat in her car a few minutes later, she was thankful to Jenny for taking the time to explain exactly what a male escort was.


	23. Jan 22

_**Jan 22  
><strong>_It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.  
><strong>J. K. Rowling<strong>, _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, 1997_

Despite the chill outside, the church was strangely warm. Away from the arctic wind and the constant threat of snow, the stone walls provided a measure of protection and comfort, in more ways than one.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs was never happy when a case connected with a church. His investigator side worried about conspiracies of silence, of confessions to priests that could not be disclosed, and religious fanatics. On a more personal basis, he disliked disturbing their sanctity with such base matters as murder.

The church had been supportive of him during difficult times in his life. His second divorce came to mind and he fought the urge to smile. The deaths of his family. Then, the _padre_ had provided comfort, reassured him that they were safe now.

The aisle was narrow and he walked softly, ignoring DiNozzo's stomps which disturbed the peace. The _padre_ was out on a house call. No answers for him here today.

His eyes stopped at a small collection of candles, patiently burning in front of a shrine to the Virgin Mary. He paused, not reacting when DiNozzo crashed into the back of him, and altered course to carry out his task. A candle. The lighter he always carried in his pocket. Thoughts of Shannon and Kelly and a quiet prayer for them.

To his credit, DiNozzo did not comment on their temporary stop and remained silent on the way back to the car. Gibbs forced his mind away from his family and back to his job. He could dwell another time.


	24. Jan 23

_**Jan 23  
><strong>_Disconnecting from change does not recapture the past. It loses the future.  
><strong>Kathleen Norris<strong>, _O Magazine, January 2004_

Anthony DiNozzo did not like change for the sake of change. More often than not, things worked better before some interfering busybody who had never been in the real world came along and ordered alterations.

Some things never changed, despite however many attempts. They provided comfort in a world that viewed change as necessary. Gibbs and his addiction to coffee, basements and bourbon. The way Jenny watched Gibbs when she thought he wasn't looking, although the man always knew. Ziva messing up her idioms and her threats of death and pain. McGee's inability with women and obsession with computers. Abby just being… Abby.

He doubted he would ever change. His mask protected him, hid the real, damaged DiNozzo from prying eyes with the smiley, jokey Tony. Showing vulnerability was not an option.

And yet he had grown up over the years. He used to chase after every woman who crossed his path, fall head over heels in love with them before falling out of love three weeks later like clockwork. After Jeanne, after he had learnt at the worst possible time that he was capable of falling in love and staying there, he had accepted change. Sure, he still flirted, he still appreciated women. But he no longer fell in love at a moment's notice. Instead, he watched from afar, determined not to have his heart broken again.


	25. Jan 24

_**Jan 24  
><strong>_Never chase a lie. Let it alone, and it will run itself to death.  
><strong>Lyman Beecher<strong>** (1775 - 1863)**

Abby Scuito did not generally spend a lot of time in the Director's office. Most of the time, she reported directly to her silver-haired fox. When Rule 38 was in effect, Tony received her updates. But both of them came into her domain for her results, aware of how busy she was; it was easier for them to come to her than it was to chase every agent all over the building to provide updates. She would never get any work done.

When Jenny wanted to see her, she usually dropped by the lab, despite her incredibly busy schedule. Official matters warranted a visit to the office. Yet occasionally the Goth would get on the elevator to see the redhead because neither of them wanted a certain ex-marine to turn up during the conversation.

Especially as he seemed to have magic radar attached to certain conversations.

"I am beginning to understand Jethro's hatred of journalists," Jenny moaned, leaning back in her chair in an attempt to move as far away as possible from the offending magazine article.

Abby simply grinned. "It isn't _that_ bad," she pointed out. At Jenny's raised eyebrow, she elaborated. "No naked photos involved. Yet. All they did was hint you're seeing a two-star General, who, by the way, while I'm disappointed it's not Gibbs, he's still hot in the older man way –"

Jenny held up a hand to cut her off. "I'm not dating General Atkins," she clarified. "He invited me for coffee."

"Really?" Abby smirked. "You kiss everyone you have coffee with?"

Jenny slumped in her seat. "It's complicated. I have no idea how they got that snap."

"Why don't you set Ziva on them?" Abby wondered. "She dealt with Senator Fahy for you. I like that you have a pet Mossad officer who will maim people for you; can I steal her in case I end up with another stalker?"

"Just tell Gibbs," Jenny suggested. "He'll start building a sniper's nest. And I don't want to chase this lie. It'll only add fuel to the fire."

Abby nodded sagely. No fuel and the fire would burn itself out. She hoped.


	26. Jan 25

_**Jan 25  
><strong>_Like an ability or a muscle, hearing your inner wisdom is strengthened by doing it.  
><strong>Robbie Gass<strong>

Ducky sighed as he surveyed the crime scene. A young man, a week from graduating the Academy, mugged and stabbed. What was the world coming to?

Jethro's team were busy scurrying around like ants, all focused on their jobs yet working seamlessly in a way that indicated just how long they had been together. Anthony was sketching the scene, Ziva was taking photographs and young Timothy was busy questioning a potential witness. Jethro himself was sipping his coffee slowly and moving between his agents, allowing them to brief him and co-ordinate the investigation. Ducky smiled. No wonder they had a high solve rate.

He turned his attention back to the young man awaiting his ministrations. Mr. Palmer had already settled down next to him and was trying to absorb everything. His mentor could not help another smile at the younger man's dedication. So rare, nowadays.

Mr. Palmer opened his mouth as if to say something, but then he closed it and continued staring at their new guest's right ear. "Is everything quite alright?" Ducky asked, mildly curious. "Have you found something?"

"I'm not sure," his assistant replied. "It's here." He indicated.

"Why don't you tell me your idea first?" Ducky suggested.

"I might not be right and you have far more experience than me," Mr. Palmer commented.

Ducky found himself smiling for the third time in less than five minutes. "You have to learn to trust your gut," he advised. "So, what have you found?"


	27. Jan 26

_**Jan 26  
><strong>_One can acquire everything in solitude - except character.  
><strong>Marie Henri Beyle<strong>** (1783 - 1842)**

Leroy Jethro Gibbs enjoyed solitude. He was not someone who needed to fill his time with aimless chatter, far more content in silence. He did not necessarily need company to enjoy himself and he did not usually have feelings of loneliness.

His basement kept him sane; the peace and time away from the madness and darkness of the outside world. Building boats occupied his mind, allowed him to relax and sleep without nightmares of his family or the latest case. Occasionally both. It was his sanctuary and he guarded it fiercely. He did not lock his front door but protected his basement with his sniper rifle. Woe betide the idiot who attempted to take anything.

Tonight was not a night spent alone to keep the nightmares away or to take a break from the latest investigation. He was sleeping soundly for once and the cases were all currently as cold as the Arctic. Tonight was about relaxing before the next manic period at work, about taking some time to himself.

A loud crash upstairs made him debate the need for the sniper rifle, until various footsteps joined it and he relaxed, rolling his eyes and wondering why they still bothered trying to spy on him. Tony and McGee together sounded like a herd of stampeding elephants. Abby's platforms were especially distinctive. Only Ziva stood a chance against his sharp hearing and she was not attempting to conceal herself, acutely aware the others were being too noisy for it to be worth the effort.

Despite knowing his solitude was about to be irreparably disturbed, he smiled. Sometimes a little company was good for the soul.


	28. Jan 27

_**Jan 27  
><strong>_Part of the secret of success in life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside.  
><strong>Mark Twain<strong>** (1835 - 1910)**

Timothy McGee stared in horror at the sight before him. He regularly stared down serial killers, mad bombers and a certain Goth before her morning Caf-Pow! But nothing was as horrifying, as nightmare-inducing than this.

He had long known that Tony was ever so slightly insane. No one in their right mind would willfully taunt a Mossad assassin on a regular basis. Nor would they dare to speculate about their boss's love life and the latest mysterious redhead with the knowledge that the man in question could sneak up behind someone and kill them with his bare hands. And they would definitely not note that the Director had nice legs within possible earshot of the woman who was perfectly capable of reassigning him to the middle of nowhere.

Tim shook his head on the off chance he was hallucinating. Nope. Tony was really eating a sandwich with what looked like salami, pepperoni, tuna and jalapeños, coupled with a healthy dollop of mayo.

"You're going to make yourself ill," he noted.

Tony continued chewing his current mouthful and swallowed hard. "It's nice!" he protested. "You should try some."

"Not in a million years," Tim promised.

"Is the ickle Probie afraid of a sandwich?" Tony teased. "It doesn't bite."

Tim was saved from the inevitable dare by the arrival of Ziva. "What _are _you eating?" she demanded.


	29. Jan 28

_**Jan 28  
><strong>_Repetition does not transform a lie into a truth.  
><strong>Franklin D. Roosevelt<strong>** (1882 - 1945)**, _radio address, October 26, 1939_

Leroy Jethro Gibbs sat in his favorite chair in Interrogation. He may have had to surreptitiously steal it from another room where it had migrated, but it was worth it. His team did not know about his favorite chair, but his evil ex-partner did and she was not beyond playing such childish pranks. Especially after he had openly flirted with a redheaded suspect yesterday. News travelled fast.

His current suspect, a six foot African American marine who Ziva had not so subtly been eyeing up, was causing him no end of problems. His alibi was a lie. Even if Gibbs did not have eighteen years experience in interrogations under his belt, the ability to read people and a gut feeling that was the envy of the agency, the suspect had a lousy poker face. And McGee had utterly destroyed the alibi as well.

"I said," the marine repeated for the umpteenth time. "I said I was at Club Nero between 2200 and 0200. With my friends. Who will vouch for me."

"Then we have a problem," Gibbs answered. "My agents have watched the CCTV and flashed your photo. Nothing. Your friends are lawyering up. And I've got _you_ at a cash machine half a block from the crime scene in that time."

"I told you I wasn't there."

Gibbs wondered why people continued to repeat stories that were patiently untrue. It was a waste of breath and his time. He picked up the file and walked out, happy to let his suspect stew for a few hours. Perhaps he would realize the value of the truth before long.


	30. Jan 29

_**Jan 29  
><strong>_Each bird loves to hear himself sing.  
><strong>Arapaho Proverb<strong>

Jimmy Palmer enjoyed his alone time in Autopsy. Despite the popular misconception among some of the agents that Doctor Mallard practically lived down there, his mentor spent a surprising amount of time conferring with Abby. Jimmy himself had been forbidden to visit the Goth unaccompanied on official 'business' as he tended to stay a little longer than he should. And the two scientists needed to discuss exactly which tests needed to be run on which bodily tissues.

He could relax a little more when he was alone. Not that being around Doctor Mallard kept him tense and on edge, but spending so much time with his mentor could be a little stressful. Some time apart assisted even the best friendships.

Sometimes it was a little awkward being around so many dead bodies. Doctor Mallard was completely at ease around them, chatting away as though he had known them all his life. Although Palmer tried, he was not yet as comfortable to someone who could never talk back.

But the acoustics in Autopsy were pretty darn good…

He sang both to himself and to his guests, providing comfort and light-heartedness to all as he went about his tasks. And he did not notice Agent Gibbs step off the elevator and pause to listen for a moment, before leaving him once more.


	31. Jan 30

_**Jan 30  
><strong>_Curiosity is one of the permanent and certain characteristics of a vigorous mind.  
><strong>Samuel Johnson<strong>** (1709 - 1784)**

Abigail Scuito had always been curious. From a young age, it had got her into all kinds of trouble. It wasn't her fault; she simply wanted to know more about the world around her.

Science was perfect for her. Answers at last. Working out how one thing caused another thing. The ability to predict how and why something would happen. It would never be a finite subject; there was always something new and interesting to learn, knowledge increased exponentially year on year.

Working at NCIS was a constant challenge. She could never have settled for a repetitive job in a regular analytical lab; she would have died from boredom. Instead, she dealt with a wide variety of samples, from body tissues courtesy of Ducky to whatever weird and wonderful challenge Gibbs presented her with on a regular basis. She was an acknowledged expert in her field and she loved it.

And the people she worked with. Although she ran her lab alone, not trusting anyone else with her precious babies in spite of the time she could potentially save with a well-trained assistant, her co-workers were amazing. Ducky, her partner in science. McGee, the computer genius. Tony, her partner in mischief. Ziva, who taught her scary ninja moves. And of course Gibbs.

Abigail Scuito really could not imagine a better job.


	32. Jan 31

_**Jan 31  
><strong>_Diplomacy is a continuation of war by other means.  
><strong>Zhou En Lai<strong>** (1898 - 1976)**

Jennifer Shepard winced as her precious office door was thrown open and the hinges protested. Cynthia's plaintive cries were ignored as the newcomer slammed the door shut and locked it with an air of arrogance. Nothing new there then.

"You wanted to see me, _Madame Director_?"

Briefly, she wondered if it was perhaps worth it to just set time aside solely for dealing with Jethro's latest stunt. Sometime after 5 so that she could have a very long drink afterwards. It would make things a lot easier on her. Except Jethro would ignore the appointments in a childish method of undermining her authority. She resisted the urge to sigh. She may have more underhanded ways of controlling him, but he really knew how to push her buttons.

"There's a rumor going around that you assaulted a Metro cop," she informed him. "Please tell me it isn't true."

Judging by the wide grin on Jethro's face, she suspected trouble. "Broke his nose," he told her proudly.

She stood up and walked around the desk so they could go toe-to-toe. "Tell me there was a good reason."

"He disturbed my crime scene! Either I punched him or Ducky provided a free autopsy."

Privately, she thought she would have preferred the latter. SecNav would not have believed it and therefore would not be calling every hour to rant. "There are other options," she reminded him. "Diplomatic options."

He snorted in disgust.

She grinned widely. "Have you ever arrested a Metro cop for desecrating a corpse?"


End file.
